A few yards away lay the river, sluggish and leaden under gray sky. At their backs the ground rose gently, and the reeds and bushes gave place to a thick growth of trees. A few rods further up-stream was a little promontory. Everything was very still save for the chirp of the birds in the woods and the infrequent screech of a locomotive-whistle from toward Centerport. Across the river and further down-stream the little hamlet of Harwich nestled under its leafless elms. Pete sat down and drew forth his corn-cob pipe. “Might as well take a rest,” he said. “Smoke?” “No, thanks.” Allan didn’t possess a pipe of his own, and wouldn’t have attempted Pete’s for a ten-dollar bill; the very smell of it frequently made him faint. Pete stuffed the blackened bowl full of dry tobacco and lighted it. Then he leaned back on one elbow and puffed contentedly for a moment. Allan nibbled the end of a grass-blade and stared across the empty stream. “This is about the place where we saw those birds the other day,” said Pete, finally. “Guess they’ve pulled their freight. Sorry!” “What’s the diff?” asked Allan. “We’ve had the walk. Besides, maybe we’ll find a gray squirrel if we go back through the woods.” “Anyhow, I don’t guess there’s any use going farther up the river. What time is it, I wonder? Did you bring your watch?” “Quarter of twelve,” said Allan. “Getting hungry?” “I could eat a saddle!” answered Pete. “Supposing we go back and take the ferry over to Harwich? Is there any place there we could get a feed?” “I don’t know, but I should think there ought to be. Got any money?” Pete sat up suddenly and searched his pockets. “Not a red!” he exclaimed. “I forgot to change.” “Same here,” said Allan, dolefully. Pete picked his pipe up from where it had fallen and relighted it. Then he threw himself onto his back, put one leg over the other knee, and chuckled. “I don’t think it’s so terribly funny,” said Allan, aggrievedly. “We can’t get home until three or four o’clock. Wish we’d had sense enough to bring lunch with us.” “Yes; a half dozen sandwiches and a piece of pie wouldn’t go so bad, would they? Nice thick sandwiches, with ham or beef inside, and lots of butter and mustard. And--what kind of pie do you like best, Allan?” “Oh, shut up, you!” “I like pumpkin--or, maybe, apple. Yes, apple’s pretty hard to beat. We’ll have apple; about three pieces each.” Allan groaned and threw a handful of dried grass into Pete’s face. Pete brushed it aside and went on: “When we get the table going, we’ll get Mother Pearson to give us apple-pie every night.” “Yes, when you do!” growled Allan. “Oh, _that’s_ all right, my son. Just because the only fellow I’ve found wouldn’t join, you needn’t think that table isn’t going to be. Hal’s going to introduce me to Maitland and Van Something----” “Van Sciver.” “If you say so. And Cooper; and I’ll bet you a bunch of cows I get that table filled up inside of a week. Want to bet?”